


i keep my faith in you since we learned to share

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bondage, Emotional Sex, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Exchange, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensation Play, Submission, Subspace, Wax Play, and laf is a little bit obsessive the poor dear, gentle kink, john is a nice dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: Laurens and Lafayette are both used to getting what they want.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is cass mccombs'.

Lafayette smacks his lips. He likes bourbon whiskey, he’s decided just tonight - finally something that’s better in America.

Well, there is one other American thing he’s rather fond of. He’s also southern, and occasionally sweet, but more often mischievous, and currently he’s humming to himself as he circles Lafayette, appraising him. If it were anyone but John he might look menacing, but they are here for a specific, predetermined purpose.

John stops in front of him, looks him up and down, and then smiles as if he likes what he sees. He steps forward and nudges Lafayette’s thigh with his foot. Lafayette drops his legs open a little farther, and he feels the familiar sensation of tightening in his lower abdomen. John’s holding fast to their rules, though.

“These stay on,” he reiterates, indicating Lafayette’s breeches. And, fine. That’s fine. He wishes it were different, but he knows how John gets about these things. One test session, and then he’ll himself have it like Lafayette knows he wants it. When he’d suggested rope, he’d seen John’s eyes light up and sparkle with possibility. John’s not usually one to deny himself but he’s reasonably tentative toward the things they do in private, even if Lafayette brings them up, and Lafayette supposes that’s a good thing.

He just wishes this weren’t doing exactly for him what he thought it might.

As John steps around him he adjusts, rolls his shoulders. His hands are clasped at the small of his back, but John wrenches them up so one forearm lays atop the other and wraps the rope around both of them, elbow to wrist, and ties it off with rough finality. Lafayette doesn’t try to move; the braid of the rope is digging into his skin just right, and he lets it wash over him. The fact that he’s bound is all he needs, he thinks; he could squirm and meet resistance and sink under with ease, but for now he just kneels there and feels it, feels John’s fond gaze upon him.

“What do you think?” John asks, and he’s standing in front of him again, hands on his hips, face quizzical. Lafayette could laugh, if he could swim through the rapidly thickening fog his head’s filling up with. John’s so forward, so devoid of subtlety; the little Laurens boy never needed it, he has his fists and his money and his sharp wit, in that order of preference. Lafayette has been attempting to teach both him and Hamilton the arts of persuasion and of patience. So far, it has not been going well.

John clicks his tongue, clearly frustrated that he’s not getting an answer. Lafayette lets him wait and wonder, happy to lean back into the feeling of restriction. From here, John could easily manipulate his position and bind him further, tether his wrists to his own ankles so he’d be forced to arch if he hoped not to fall, get him up and bend him over the desk in the corner with his groin precariously up against the edge as he smacked him on the ass. Lafayette loves when John hits him; he goes a little wild with permission, just this side of too far, and he cherishes that, loves that John trusts them both for a little while when he’s allowed the quickest way to work out aggression that he knows. Lafayette understands it and is happy to be a soft landing for the hard blows; he’s happy to absorb them.

Not now. Not tonight. John won’t, because John is not frustrated, and they’re here on John’s terms; Lafayette groans, feeling a bit defeated by his own thoughts. John tilts his head at him. Lafayette barely sees. He’s far and away by now, his brain going haywire with possibility, his body responding accordingly. His cock is taking interest in his own fantasy, in the infinite promise of the next time they do this. On its own the physical feeling of the rope around his skin is unbelievable; accompanied by his thoughts it becomes transcendent, the last piece of the puzzle. He thinks of John holding him down, of knowing he could break free if he’d wanted to; he compares that to this, these inhuman bonds, unyielding to any combination of twists and pulls he could possibly perform, and he rocks his hips, only distantly hearing a whimper that couldn’t have come from him but couldn’t have possibly come from anybody else.

God, he wants this. He wants  _ more. _ He wants John, wants John to  _ hurt  _ him and hit him and dig his teeth into him and tear him apart a little, rough him up. He knows he could. Why isn’t he doing it? Why is he teasing?

“Standing there like an idiot,” Lafayette hears himself say, and his voice sounds very strange indeed; there’s none of the venom he’d intended, none of that signature leering spit he can lace in when insulting someone. He lets his head loll back a bit, feeling drool run at the corner of his mouth. Without a way to wipe it off, he resigns himself to becoming the ravenous mess he knows he’s long overdue for being. He tries to shuffle forward on his knees, but finds John is not in front of him anymore; he’s moved to the chair by the door, and is reclining with one leg crossed over the other, watching Lafayette with only passing interest.

“Touch me, you horrible man,” he tries, changing direction to head toward John. John laughs, a joyful thing, ringing in the wood panels of the walls; it only serves to drive Lafayette’s rage, and he knows he must look ridiculous, the opposite of the typical grace he prides himself on, knee-walking to John who is perched so elegantly on the chaise. His flushed cheeks and frizzed hair betray him; John is enjoying this for more than just humor. Lafayette wants to worship him, wants him to beat the admiration out of him, wants to be tied down and cut up and made into a shell for him to use and use again. He and John have shared more of each other, body and soul, than he has shared with anybody else, and he knows he is young and foolish but it’s a war and they may die tomorrow so all he wants right now is for John to make it worth his time.

He finally reaches him. John’s breeches are rough beneath Lafayette’s freshly-shaven cheek; he rubs against his thigh, kisses his knee, anything he thinks might convince him. He doesn’t even know what he wants. All he sees as his vision blurs and dips and sways is John, lips looking criminally unbitten. Lafayette tries to kneel up and straighten to kiss him, but John rebuffs him, hand pulling back on his hair just in time. Sharp. Focus. He can do this; he can be quiet, can be patient. Like he tells John to be.

“Do you want out?” John asks him. Does he? Does he want to move on, want the next thing to happen - does he want John to kiss him, touch him? He remembers that John wants those things separate from this. He’s not being asked to beg, he’s being asked to direct. Lafayette never  _ requests _ anything. Both of them are accustomed to getting exactly what they want.

Instead of answering, Lafayette stalls. He takes advantage of John’s loosened grip in his hair, ducks from his hold and leans into his groin. He gets his nose against his belly before John laughs and pushes him back, and Lafayette loses his balance, falls back onto the floor. He lands hard on his trapped arms and his wrists, bent at a funny angle, protest; he whines through his nose. His legs splay out on the floor, long and still infuriatingly covered by clothing; John appraises him and seems to come to a decision. He rises and pushes at Lafayette’s side with his foot; Lafayette gets the message and rolls over. He sighs as his joints are able to flex back into a more natural position.

He can feel John’s body above his, but he doesn’t sit on him; he’s got each foot on either side of Lafayette and is leaning down, hands working at the knot he’d made. Lafayette can feel it slacken; but before it’s removed, John says, “Stay there, okay? After I do it, stay right there.” Lafayette nods, frustrated breath huffing from his lungs. He’s not going anywhere.

John takes the rope away. Lafayette feels the drop instantly, the way he falls and the floor catches him all in the same instant. John is smart. John is beautiful and good and he is everything he’s ever wanted, and he wants to kiss him because he can’t tell him with words. He’d blame his vocabulary but he hangs out with Hamilton so much that these days he’s starting to think that excuse won’t fly. His heart is full and his wrists are free but he leaves them right where they were, because John is rubbing feeling back into the numbed-over skin, the tender places at the inner wrist where he’d pulled a little too hard and scraped himself. The rope is for horses, after all, and various other things outside. John had found an unused length, but they’d need to find something softer if they wanted to do anything more intricate.

Then John is touching him, merciful God, his strong hands pressing at the tension between Laf’s shoulder blades, coaxing it away. He shivers when John’s fingertips brush his nape, and he moans, very softly, realizing too late that he could have bit it back. John doesn’t seem to mind; he chuckles, not cruelly, and focuses his attention there. All the worry and fear plaguing him evaporate, and he sobs because without it he’s not sure what to do. He’s left with nothing to hold onto when John’s presence disappears; he sobs, feeling lost.

Returning to his place above him, John shushes him, and he’s so close that Lafayette sobs again, this time in relief. His soft kisses are peppered across the back of his neck, and Lafayette sniffles, hoping he won’t leave again. It’s a stupid impulse, the part of him that still harbors puppy love calling the shots, but it feels so good to wish for something and have it come true.

“I love you like this,” John says, and he’s trailing a finger down his spine, a little further away but not apart from him - he’s just sitting up. Straddling him. His knees bracket him around the hips and Lafayette loves his weight, thinks it’s perfect for use where he’s using it. “You’re so strong, and the way you look when you give that to me… it’s more than I deserve, Gil, it really is.” Lafayette snuffles again, wishing he could wipe his nose and recover some of his dignity, because crying on the floor is really not attractive no matter what John says. This floor is clean, at least. The rare inn stay is rather conducive to their relationship.

He gasps as a blinding flash of heat lands along his back. It takes a moment for him to register, but - oh. They haven’t done this in a long time. He allows himself a brief moment to recall the last time they had - it had been an overwhelming day, and they’d made camp alone in some part of the forest well away from their men (they’d gotten a royal tirade from Washington for their efforts the next morning, but it had been worth it for the way Lafayette had felt seeing the wax arranged in a pattern at the small of his back. John had grinned at him in full view of Washington and had been kept after Lafayette had been dismissed, and Lafayette secretly suspected he’d been beaten.) They’d bathed together and John had teased about doing it again the next time he was out of his mind, but he hadn’t brought it up since - maybe he  _ did _ carry the virtue of patience. Lafayette has no idea how the simplest sensations - heat, cold, forced restraint - can have such a profound effect on him and how John can remain in such complete control, enforcing rules, keeping things sensible for both of them. But he’s grateful for it. 

John varies his distance from his back, splashing tiny pools of heated wax along his spine, then out toward his sides. Experimental. Tentative. Lafayette wiggles, and John stops for a moment, soothes him with a broad palm on his shoulder.

“I wonder,” John says thoughtfully, drawing a slow spiral with the wax - Lafayette hisses - “if I could write  _ Laurens _ on your back. Right here,” he says, tapping with a fingertip at the space just above his buttock on the right side. “Mark you as mine. It would look rather good, don’t you think?”

Lafayette moans, pants, makes a little play for him to hurry it along by shimmying again. John tuts, but doesn’t say anything further; he waits for Lafayette to stop moving and pours what’s left in the candle onto him. It’s intense, longer exposure than he’s taken before. Lafayette goes dizzy with it; once again the floor is a genius move on John’s part. He thinks he’d manage to fall off the bed even if he were pinned against it.

He’s so far out of his head that when John finally pulls him up to stand he sees the objects in the room in double vision for a moment. John pulls him to the bed, and he lets him kiss and touch him like he needs to; his hands go to Lafayette’s hips and then slip under his breeches as they kiss. Lafayette arches into the touch, and John squeezes his buttocks, and as they grind harder and harder it becomes less of a kiss and more shared breathing, their lips touching but just barely. John’s unlaced the back of his breeches enough to tug them down and Lafayette cries out when his cock is freed against John’s clothes. John’s eyes widen and in a spark of clarity he clamps a hand over Lafayette’s mouth; Lafayette makes an apologetic whimpering noise and ruts against him harder, and John’s hand comes up to stroke along his cheek. It goes into his hair and holds him up as he shimmies out of his own breeches and finally,  _ finally, _ they’re bare against each other, blissful as they were made to be, and Lafayette feels the least self-conscious he ever has, the same way he always feels when he’s with John. John traces his waist and looks into his eyes and it’s over too soon, the rough and filthy climb paying off in a split-second of gratification that could never do the two of them justice. Lafayette rolls off of John but stays firmly attached to his side, and John makes the sweetest little noise of assent as he snuggles into his side for warmth. He wraps his arms around his middle and sighs into Lafayette’s hair, and Lafayette thinks sleepily about what he’d said, about how he’d flirted with the idea of owning him. He thinks of John’s possessive nature, his quick temper, the way he always gets what he wants and holds onto it for dear life. And he thinks, he’s traveled this far - he might as well find something to keep him here.

**Author's Note:**

> american whisky wasn't called bourbon until the 1820s, but we're pretending.


End file.
